


'You're so brew-tiful, Snow'

by beaubcxton



Series: Crowley, I lava you. [1]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bad Puns, First Kiss, First Meetings, Kissing Games, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 13:56:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15730785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubcxton/pseuds/beaubcxton
Summary: Simon hated Mondays.Reason 1: His mom died two years ago in June on a Monday.Reason 2: Agatha broke up with him last week. Surprise, surprise! It was on a Monday!Reason 3: He just spilled hot coffee on the fittest guy in the world on a fucking Monday aka today.





	'You're so brew-tiful, Snow'

**Author's Note:**

  * For [@recgulus](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=%40recgulus).



> Happy Birthday @recgulus. Send them some love on tumblr and wishes! I hope you like this, love.

It happens on a Monday. Of course, it does Nothing good ever happened on a Monday.  Simon should have known to keep his head low on a day like this. Children sobbing was the welcome tune that announced the beginning of a new day, fingers stumbled on the steering wheel; a sign that the night before might have been exhilarating but now was just, tiring. Mondays were like the thorns in a bed of roses.

Back in the day when his dad was still decent, his father warned him to take care of himself. ‘Nothing like a Monday, mate. Can’t smoke or drink, can ya?’ And Simon had smiled toothily at his father, shrugging off the advice like it was dust that had found its way onto his coat.

He really _really_ shouldn’t have done that.

Reason 1: His mom died two years ago in June on a Monday.

Reason 2: Agatha broke up with him last week. Surprise, surprise! It was on a Monday!

Reason 3: He just spilled hot coffee on the fittest guy in the world on a fucking Monday aka today.

* * *

“Simon!!”

 Feet wheeling automatically at the familiar voice, I extend my arms right in time for Penelope Bunce to fling herself against my chest. Her giggles send a row of vibrations in me that shudder each bone. I-weirdly- find myself inhaling her hair as if to assure myself she’s there. (She smells of watermelon and ink. Typical of her to do something study related even on vacation ) I shift uncomfortably in the hug, her phone digging in my arm.

Pen is my best friend. Been since we were tiny tots. She'd been gone for nearly a month. Being the only person who included me in social on goings also known as parties where you could get wasted, Penny was the Jake to my Boyle. When conversations had the opportunity to become awkward and stifling, Pen was pretty cool to divert my attention. We'd video called at least five times a week this month.

 She pulls back, grins still wide on both of our faces and surveys her surroundings.

It’s earlier than I would like it to be; it’s just barely afternoon and I’ve been awake since dawn. It’s a tiny cafe, huddled alone with its vivid hues of orange and brown amongst the grey concrete building. Good for business. Unlike the outdoors, the interior of the cafe’s temperature induced warmth and placidity. I usually notice several kids hunched and pored over their studying material. Textbooks that hid their anxious face from view are stacked on the tables, their coffees long since drained but I rarely pay attention to it, opting for my ‘want a free refill, mate?’ chime. Employed at the beginning of fall, I was given only a few days to suit the shop with the atmosphere outside. Pumpkins decorate the cashier desk and they’ve been carved to look like famous people. My favorite one is the one that looks like Miley Cyrus. Strings of lights, the ones you get in IKEA fall from the ceiling casting a mellow glow in the gloominess of the upcoming winter.

“I can’t believe you work here now.” She huffs, still having a staring competition with one of the pumpkins. Taylor Swift must have won because my best friend snaps her gaze towards me as if waiting for an explanation. I know where she's going with this and I have no intention whatsoever to get into it. It'll just end with her storming out or worse so I just hum in agreement or whatever she expects from me.

 Surprisingly between tucks of hair and another staring completion with Shawn Mendes, she tells me, “It’ll be good for you. I hope, at least. You’ve been a mopey mess since Agatha, now don’t give me that look Si. You know it’s true. I told you not to get involved with her but-“

 I will my jaw and heart to loosen. “Missed you Pen.”

 Her teasing and motherly grin could light the whole shop up. “Micah and I missed you too.”

 My smile wavers. Right. Her boyfriend in America. Really decent bloke, always up for the occasional drag though he’s a right wanker when he’s reading a book. We get along swimmingly. And it's not like I like like Penny but whenever she talks about Micah, it reminds me of my recent break up with Agatha. Someone who I thought I'd spend my life with. For fucks sake, we're twenty three. I'd be Pinocchio if I told you that I didn't go ring shopping.

“Simon?” I run a hand through my hair and grimace when it comes out sticky. I haven't talked about Agatha since she broke up with me.

“I’m alright.” I say and conclude the statement by sending her a shaky smile. Penny looks wary but doesn’t do something weird like putting her hand on my shoulder or lending me a hug. I’m grateful for it but also resentful.

The door tinkles and-

 “Simon Snow?”

 My first thought is ‘Fuck me.’ My second is ‘I’m going to act like a dunce. Crowley, this boy knows my name.’ And my third is nothing.

I go blank. Nada and nil, both poetic wonders dance from my tongue. Penny pinches my arm. I can see her smirking and hiding a giggle but I don’t reproach her for it. Not when Adonis is standing right in front of me, his muscular form a barrier against the cool wind he’s brought with the open door. With slanted eyebrows and thin lips, he looks like someone you’d see in portraits at castles, despite the smirk on his face.

“Simon Snow?” He calls out again and I watch mesmerized as his mouth opens and pronounces my name. I flush. It’s probably in my best intentions if I don’t drool over a customer and with hardly any cool, I raise my arm up like a moron and squeak out a “Here?” like we’re kids and back to roll call.

Super Fit bloke- as I recently decided to call him in my head- shifts his searching glance and focuses on me and I almost reel back in surprise. He’s wearing a hat that shadows his features but even blind, I’d recognize him anywhere. His eyes are grey and unlike anything that I’ve seen. It’s like a storm in there and I’m captivated by observing them. It’s so different watching them up close, up person in day light than stalking his Instagram profiles at 2am.  And his hair is carefully mussed up in an extravagant manner, dark and shiny locks peeking out lazily.

I'm speechless. This is the best day of my life.

“Bastillon Pitch?”

My mouth blurts the words out but I suspect even if I had time, I’d say those same words. That same name. Do you know who is standing in my-not mine but you get the point- coffee shop right now? Award winning and three time oscar nominee, Bastillon Pitch. He has nine million and seven thousand followers on Instagram (not that I would know) and he’s been called to Ellen which he’s refused, by the way. For all my understanding (and obsessive knowledge) about  him, I could never understand why he would do that. I mean, who refuses Ellen? That’s like refusing chocolate. Only a few months older than me, he’s the youngest actor to star in so many bloody iconic movies.

 The man grimaces and looks around to see if anyone’s heard my exclamation but that would be ridiculous because the only people in the room are him, Pen, me and two ladies with floral blouses and wrinkled fingers. The latter are deep in conversation and are stealing glances at us occasionally to check whether we’re eavesdropping. They’re loud so that’s taken care of. In the seventeen minutes that they’ve been there, I’ve learned that they are lesbians whose gay son eloped with a girl. I'd like to say that's the strangest thing I've heard but it doesn't even rank top ten in today's conversations.

“I go by Baz and shut up, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Rathe dumb, aren’t you? You’re the barista here?” His voice is smooth and dark like wine drunk on a summer night. The tone, however, implies he thinks I’m incompetent. It’s like he’s trying to convey, ‘You? You’re the barista here? Seriously?’ I feel like I’ve been slapped. Hurt and embarrassment course through me simultaneously.

It’s not every day that one get to meet their fucking celebrity crush but well (I like boys too, you see) I imagine I’m handing it rather well, never mind that my face is probably beet red and I’m this close to stammering. Don’t give me that look. ‘Baz’ Pitch is literally an icon. He’s acted in several movies and he’s so good at it that I get goosebumps watching him. And Crowley, I’d be lying if I said he wasn’t the fittest person I’d seen in my life. 10/10 ass and a perfect asshole. I don’t think I can handle his fucking beautiful lilt this early in the morning what with Agatha presence still ghosting my mind. Bastillon Pitch or not.

“Yes.” I bite. “Why?”

 “Just expected a bit more, I suppose. Most baristas have a uniform” He breaks off suddenly and stretches hard like, his shirt literally goes up and I have a view of strained muscles. Crowley. I’m staring at it so hard I’m not aware he’s speaking till he coughs. Shit. I want to wipe that smirk off.

“You seem like the type of guy to like Brooklyn Nine Nine but you don’t even wear a uniform so I can’t consider you a true fan. Seriously Snow, who wears that to work?” His mouth is opening and closing but all I hear from him is the sign ‘I’m a prick.’

“Sorry, we can’t look like posh assholes all the time.”

 He rolls his eyes again at my attempted jab. “You-“

 “You  know,-“ I interrupt loudly, “-I wonder if you keep rolling your eyes because you’re trying to find a brain back there.”

 The asshole grins and I’m disarmed by the beauty of it for a moment. His teeth do not contrast well with his tanned appearance. They look almost yellow in the dim light of the coffee shop but they’re sharp. I oddly wonder if he’s played a vampire. But then I know he’s not. I’ve watched all his movies. Twice. Okay, thrice.  (And maybe a few more times after that)

“Touche” As he walks towards me, I can swallow my disgust. He’s so damned tall. Seriously what was the point of these people with their ridiculous heights of six foot when I, a mere mortal was just five foot one? (I never said I wasn't dramatic.)  “I didn’t expect it from you. Soft, aren’t you Snow?”

Pen, the traitor is nicely backing away.

 “Soft?” I splutter manically even though I know being soft is wonderful but Bastillion Pitch cannot know in any universe that Simon Snow is soft. It would not bode well on his impression of me.

He grins wolfishly. “Shame.”

 Shame? _Shame_? What does that even mean?

His sudden bark of laughter shakes the bloody walls. “Flustered, mate?”

 Oh. Oh. Pen has long since retreated, thankfully because I wouldn’t feel like quitting if she was here. It’s just like the universe to make the (EX) love of my life an arse who has no consideration for my feelings. I admonish myself for sounding like a sap.

“I only get flustered in front of cute. Hot, hot people.”

 Predator smirk combined with no reply sets me on edge. “What do you want?”

 “Good grades but I already have them. Do you, Snow?”

 I try not to let the bitterness seep into my tone. Of course, acting isn’t enough for the Great Bastillon Pitch. He’d have to study and rank too, possibly. I couldn’t understand why he’d need to work with all that money.

“Stop calling me that.”

Damn, how does he raise just one eyebrow?

“It’s a name, Snow. Surely, even you know what their purpose it?”

What? I’m so confused right now. I rack my brains and ask myself if I’ve done anything to warrant such behaviour but I come out short. Did I bump into him on the street and not apologize? Kick his dog? No to both because I’d remember being a shithead. I don’t want to be on bad blood with Bastillon Pitch, however so I try to rein my irritation in. Maybe we got off on the wrong foot.

“What are you majoring in?”

He stares at me. Blinks. Stares. “I want to become a lawyer.” He draws out the words like he thinks I’m a moron.

Who knew it’d be hard to have a conversation with Bastillon Pitch? Not me.

“I think you playing a vile asshole has rubbed on your in real life personality.” This time, I’m teasing.

His laughter is a sound I’ve not heard before. It’s warm and cold, both at once like he’s rarely had the opportunity to full on laugh, uncontrolled and unpracticed and he’s not sure how to excel in the skill. I think that irks him, not being able to control it because he stops quickly though I won't forget how, for a moment, his eyes crinkled shut and how his fingers curled in. I shiver.

It’s like someone has clicked a button on his personality. His face becomes a mask of nonchalance. “Coffee.” He orders. “Tall and with milk.”

 Disappointment finds its way to me. Despite the ongoing insults, it was exciting to spar with someone. I’m just usually bored here. I grind the dusty little machine on (it’s certainly not Starbucks material) and waits for the hum that it’s working before I assemble the milk and sugar, distinctly aware that eyes are trailing me.

“You’d be a good lawyer,” I say suddenly as I pour a teaspoon of milk in, anxious to continue the conversation. His eyes widen. “Make people all mad and that. That be two pounds.”

 His lips twitch as he silently hands over the money. I draw up the bill and as I’m handing over the coffee, full to the brim in a paper cup. His nails brush the desk as he leans forward, breath warm against my cheek as he murmurs, “You’ve got a nice arse, Snow.”

 And because, I’m Simon Snow, because I’m a walking disaster, because Bastillon Pitch is an asshole who deserves it, I splutter and my hands shake for one infinite second before the cup goes down falling and the piping beverages jumps onto Baz’s leather clothes.

Times stops in that standstill of a second. Nothing moves. In that second, I’m not an idiot but the spell is broken and I realize what an A class clown I am.

“You’ve got a little coffee there.” I murmur, mortified as Bastillon Bloody Pitch stares at himself for several seconds before his charged animal eyes hook me in place.

* * *

 

“What the fuck, Snow?”

I splutter maniacally, flinging drool here and there. Sending a plea to the ground to swallow me up, I stumble in my haste to get some towels. I start to dab one on his chest and flush when I realize I’m essentially touching his breasts. I am touching Bastillon Pitch, Oh my Gosh.

Do not think about that, Simon Snow. Do not think about that.

Baz pushes me off and tugs the towel and wipes himself. He’s snarling and his eyes have darkened but I (shockingly) notice pink colouring his cheeks.

“Rubbing it won’t help, Bastillon. You’re supposed to dab-”

“I reckon you’d know a lot about this. This your ninth time dropping coffee on a customer? And I go by Baz, how many fucking times-”

I raise my hands and back away. He seems almost embarrassed but I do not want to be in the way of an angry ‘Baz’  ‘ _Penny, please be there._ “I’m sorry. Coffee’s on the house.”

“THERE IS NO COFFEE, TO BEGIN WITH!”

Well, he has a point there. I concede defeat and murmur apologies. Baz drops the towel on the floor like a wanker and storms out, the door slamming shut behind him and the texture of frost whipping across my face for a millisecond as I process the previous events.

The old lady is looking at me and grinning hysterically. I bury my hands in my face and groan.

I could _not_ catch a break.

* * *

“Snow!”

 _Fuck. What is he doing here?_ I shut my eyes for a second, try to collect any calm in this universe and curse softly.

“SNOW!”

Quickly donning the apron, I rush out the door slightly irked which dissipates as soon as the warm aroma of coffee ground hits me. And, right in front of me is Baz looking at me like I've done something terrible. Nothing surprising there.

He sneers. “Where's the apron?”

My eyebrows pinch together and I look down at myself, just to double check. I had worn it.

“What are you on about, mate? It's right here.” I say and gesture to my clothes.

Surprisingly, Baz flushes and growls out, “Where's my apron, you moron?”

I know he's trying to be a really tough boy and crap but whenever he growls, it sounds really cute, almost like he's imitating a baby bear. I have the sudden urge to pinch his cheeks and coo over him.

“Snow!”

He even has the personality of a bear.

“Sorry. Lost in thought. What did you say?”

Baz shutting his eyes will forever be one of the most dramatic things in the world. It's like one of those slow things. First, he twists his fingers and they curl around the table. Then, his lips purse. All the while his eyes are slowly shutting. Maybe, he took classes for that.

“I said,” He manages to say. “Where the _fuck_ is my apron?”

Sighing, I run a hand through my hair. “Look, mate, I can make you a cup of perfectly fine coffee, provided you don't startle me like-”

“Urgh!” Baz implores to some deity. “I’m working here, you dumbass.”

I freeze.

There is no way I heard correctly.

“What?”

“Fucking Crowley.” He murmurs, throwing his look downwards. "Are you always this daft?" 

Just when you think life’s picking up, when you finally move on from the incidents of yesterday and go a few hours without this complete and utter arse, Bastillon Pitch drops in and says, “Hey!”

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Crowley, I'm going to need to tell my aunt about you.”

Somewhere inside me, my heart stumbles. “What?”

“My aunt?” Baz smirks. “The owner?”

 _Are you serious?_ Someone up there had it out for me. Embarrassment rings through me.

Pinching my lip, I have a revelation about what I must do. Alrighty then. I give him my apron and resign. Guns and Roses blare in the background as I do this mighty and heroic deed. I leap off the platform, pluck my sunglasses off and kiss the mole on Bastillon face because no matter how much of an asshole he is, I will forever be attracted to him before I pull away and slam the door on my way out.

Well, I imagine all of this. Could you tell? I really cannot believe my luck. Now, his aunt who I assumed was a perfectly good woman is going to fire me and I’ll live on the streets for all eternity. Staring at how happy Bastillon looks with the bombshell he's just dropped doesn't help me in the slightest. Moving to get him an apron, I throw it towards him and cross my arms as a thought strikes me.

“When did you start?”

Chuckling low and warm, Baz pulls the apron on top of himself and smiles. “And here I thought you were dull.  Yesterday.”

* * *

                                  

We’ve settled into a routine. Baz and I. It’s really just one rule though we’ve found it hard to obey. _Do not interfere with the other._

Sometimes, I’m making coffee when Baz leg brushes against mine and while both of us turn pink, I choose not to say anything while he goes into a rage about how I’m an imbecile who hogs all the space and how ‘you hog all the space with your fucking stupidity, Snow!’

So I’d retaliate. The other day, for example, he’d asked me for a cuppa. He was on break and by obligation, I had to make him one so I set out to make a cup of tea when this brilliant idea struck me. I boiled the gatorade up and put it in a cup with sugar on its side. Waiting patiently as he raised his eyebrows, sipped the tea and then, spat it out, I couldn’t help but feel vicious satisfaction.

We play a bunch of games too. Not the friendly ones that children in playgrounds do but the ones that people with no lives and who thrive on annoying their rival do.

One of them is the growling game; everytime, we roast each other and someone doesn’t retort but growls, loses. The other is The Quick Game; we have a tally on who serves the most customers. So far, Baz is winning by a marginal. (a lot) My favorite is the Embarrassment Game; when we’re talking to customers, we tell them ridiculous things about the other. Baz, of course, started it first. He had told one of my favorite customers that I’m a rather dull kid and his aunt had hired me in pity. I had told the next customer he was gay. He, surprisingly, didn’t have anything to say to that and we haven’t played the game since.

* * *

 

“You’d think that a barista would know how to make a cup of coffee.” Baz is saying to his aunt, Fiona who is coincidentally my boss. Did I mention that before? We’re at her office, not because she’s called me though that was what I was led to believe, cue angry glare at the boy on my left. “But Snow dropped the whole fucking mug, sorry, freaking mug on me on my first day and I had to go home.” Baz added, opting for a pout.

Crowley, he looks brilliant. Bugger. We’re playing the Embarrassment Game again and I am not ready, for once.

I try to display some professional mannerism. Might as well look good before I was fired. Still, I feel melancholic as I rack my brains about my future prospects. What would I work as now? Who’d want to hire me? The guy who can’t hold a cup of coffee? I wouldn’t hire me. I can’t help but feel resentment towards Baz.

“Simon.” Fionareproaches, leaning forward, hands crinkling some papers as she does so. I liked Ms. Pitch. Despite her hubris and ridiculous attire; fluffy clothes that suited a ball venue and not a coffee shop, she was sweet when you (really) got to know her. Never in my wildest dreams would I imagine her to be connected to Baz _Pitch_. It was typical of my luck for my rival’s aunt to be my boss. “I am very disappointed in you.”

My eyes shut, ashamed. You’d think I’d be used to it, right? The shouts that I’m not good enough but-

“You should have poured the whole bloody machine on his head. He certainly deserves it!”

Baz’s eyes widen proportionally while my mouth drops open.

“What?” We both articulate.

Ms. Pitch goes on as if she hasn’t heard out exclamations. “I thought I couldn’t love you anymore. I was wrong.” Her eyes fixate on me and I stare back, stupefied.

“Go on, then! You have a coffee shop to run.”

As I’m leaving, she says, “And Simon? Expect a raise soon.”

The door slams shut before I can express my stupefied gratitude. I think of going in, again but then I hear Baz’s groans and protests and my feet express a desire to get away, as quickly as possible.

* * *

 

“Hey, Baz?” I begin, crumpling the cupcake wrapper in a ball and stuff the cake in my mouth. We’re on lunch break now. Sitting right in front of me is Baz though his focus is on his phone and not me. It’s a _real_ pity. Is my sarcasm obvious? I wonder if he’s hungry. Looks like he’s starving. That would explain his pallid color. I know he’d prefer sitting away from me but it’s either here, in the kitchen or outside and attending to people. Every introvert’s worst nightmare. “Baz?”

He rolls his eyes at his phone and cranes his neck upwards. “ _What_ , Snow?”

I tsk. He’s like a fucking crab, always ready to bite my head off even though I’m perfectly pleasant. I suspect that even if the Queen of England were to knock, he’d slam the door in her face, grumbling about something.

“Do you ever eat?”

Surprise flashes in his eyes before he scoffs. “No, Snow. I don’t. I’m a vampire and I drink blood.”

I grin toothily at him. They’re probably yellow and red, resultants of the red velvet cupcake and gummy bears I had for lunch.

“Always knew you were a soul sucking monster.”

Baz turns back to his phone though I can see a hint of a smile at his lips.

* * *

The other day, word got out that the Bastillon Pitch works at a humble cafe so we’ve been swarmed by teenage girls. Baz, true to his credit, threw them a stellar personality before he said rather dismissively, “We’re closing early! Technical issues.”

I had thrown him a look. “Baz. We worked at a cafe.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

I rolled my eyes and sent his fans a smile but they ignored me. “Can you sign this, Baz?” “Baz! Will you marry me?”

The requests were strange but Bas took them in stride. Soon, we had most of them out but camera lights still flashed in out direction. When we decided to close for the day, Baz and I lazed about in the room. Him working on study material and I worked on getting my tumblr theme.

“I don't understand what those girls see in you.”

Baz barely spares me a glance as his fingers click the keyboard.

“I’m an actor, Snow.”

“And a real life vampire.”

Baz grins. Hides it. “What are you studying?”

“I don't go to college anymore.”

“Oh?” Baz seems surprised. “If you wanted money, you could ask-”

I dont know if he's jesting or being genuinely kind but it stings me, regardless. “I don't want to go.”

“Oh.”

“Oh.”

* * *

 

“Sorry! I’m latte!” The pun comes naturally as I burst in the coffee shop, almost an hour late. The bell tinkles as I run towards the cashier.

Baz is leaning against the counter, no customers in sight. It’s a slow day. But apparently, I’ve made a horrendous mistake as Baz folds his arms over his chest and stares me down, the textbook picture of condescension.

“Thank Crowley” I breathe as I pull over my apron. Normally, I’m not late. I’m really not but today, right as I was about to leave the flat, Agatha comes barging in, tears cascading down her pretty face. Her mascara was smudged so I’d known she had been crying for hours.

“What’s wrong?” I had set her down on the sofa and went off to make some tea. That’s all I’ve been doing lately. Agatha started going on about how she missed me and agreed that maybe, we should have given us another shot.

“Let’s get back together, Si, alright?” Agatha had said, staring at me with those bluebell eyes I had grown so accustomed and fond of seeing.

And then, I had a revelation. I did not want _us_ anymore. It wasn’t so much that I was afraid of being hurt again but something else. I had moved on. It felt weird because I was so used to being in love with her, I forgot the feeling of not loving her. And, this feeling was so great I wanted to giggle but I couldn’t do that, not with Agatha flooding my apartment with her tears so I had steered her out and said very softly, mind you that ‘No, I’m sorry, Aggy but no.”

Now, here I was, still panting and victim to ‘Bastillon Pitch Full On Glare’, something I did not want to ever see. He’d looks like he’s swallowed dung. So fucking angry.

“I met up with Agatha.” I say, shortly. That does not dissuade him in the slightest. If I had to say, he looked even more angry. I had rambled about my ex to him in the past weeks. I wish I hadn’t.

“Oh,” He says cooly. “And, I suppose the lovely pair has gotten together again?”

“I didn’t want to.” I pacify him and he cools down, slightly.

“Oh.” He sounds like Christmas has come early. Wanker.

“I can’t expresso your attitude-”

Baz groans. “Stop with the fucking puns, Snow. You’ve been on them since yesterday.”

“And you’re still not used to it? Oh, bugger.” I mock a sympathetic sigh.

And then out of the blue, he says something that sends my heart which is already pounding a million miles per hour, race again because he’s looking at me like _that_ and the twat leaves the room after he says it, like he knows I can’t chase him after the bombshell he’s just dropped.

He stares me right in the eye and says, disinterestedly, “I’m gay.”

* * *

 

Ever since, he’s told me he’s gay, I feel like something’s changed between us. Do I tell him I’m gay or bisexual too? It’s gotten awkward. I tried to talk to him and transfer the message that I’m not homophobic to him but he gets all clammy if I’ve walked two steps up to him and begin with ‘Baz?’

Normally, I don’t let this bother me. We get on each other’s nerves. Totally normal if I kept persisting. But he’s look genuinely uncomfortable and he probably regrets telling me even though I don’t know why he’s told me in the first place, to begin with. I steer out of his way, the rest of the day.

As the day progresses, he gets even more on edge, nearly snapping at an old lady who couldn’t see the menu. I try to manage the orders and let him work near the machines. But after, he kicks the machine that we all know doesn’t work, I give up trying to soothe him.

When two people have filed a complaint, I almost facepalm. My killer headache helps in making my day worse. With that and Baz’s mood swings, there’s nothing more I want but to go back home. But of course, that’s when the day gets worse.

It’s nearly night when Fiona rings us up. She rarely comes to the shop but does her paperwork at home. Efficient and tactical.

Baz picks up the phone and I can hear Fiona's distant chattering but I focus more on Baz’s darkening face. Suddenly, he slams the phone down and tells me, “Close down.”

“It’s not 8pm, yet.” I state, dumbly.

“Fast, you imbecile.”

“But-”

That is, of course, when the lights flicker off and we’re buried in darkness. Baz’s shadow stands out prominently, in front of me and his groan followed by a curse, splits the air.

“Blackout.” Baz explains when I continue staring as he drops on the ground. I rub my eyes and lean against the counter. This was perfect. Fiona had installed those automatic doors today in the afternoon, the ones that functioned on electricity so we were locked in. Two rivals trapped in a room together. Maybe, once I went insane, psychologists could study me and they’d be shocked with the observations.

And maybe, they'd be surprised at how much I still like Bastillon Pitch.

* * *

 

Charcoal darkness has winnowed in and coated us with anxiety and tension. There were no curtains so we’d stumbled behind the counter, afraid and weary.

“Sleep in the kitchen?” I say as we’re munching leftovers.

“You can take the kitchen.” He's talking to me. “I’ll sleep here.”

Scoffing, I nudge him with my foot which apparently sets him off. “Don't be ridiculous, Baz. We’re thin enough to fit in the kitchen.”

It'll be cramped and we’ll be arm to arm but I wager we’ll manage.

Baz tears through the bread with his teeth. “Fine.” He bites off.

My foot starts to sleep so I shake it.

“Would you stop doing that?” Baz murmurs after a few minutes. He sounds agitated as he rubs his head. We’re just sitting in darkness now, doing nothing but analyze each other.

“What?”

"Shaking your fucking foot, Snow. I'm trying to sleep.”

My jaw clenched. He was so infuriating sometimes. “You are not sleeping here.”

“Oh?” Baz scoffs, curling into the wall. “Since when do you care? You’re always running after-”

I let out an angry cry. And I don't think, I do. I want him to shut up. Surging forward, I notice how Baz’s monologue starts to delve. He has his eyes shut, I faintly register before I tilt my head and kiss him.

Bas stills and sags beneath my palms like I’m draining all of the oxygen in him. And Crowley, he’s so warm. I care, I try to tell him. You're the sun and I'm crashing into you. You mean so much to me.

I'm leaning over and when he doesn't respond, I pull away, disappointed and embarrassed. He's breathing heavily and I can see his grey beautiful eyes stare at me, wide with shock. I'm stumbling to get away when I fall into his lap. Pushing away, I’m horrified and about to fucking shoot myself.

All I can think about is how the door is locked and I'm trapped with a guy who's probably going to sue me because I assaulted him and oh my god, what am I-

“Snow.” Baz murmurs.

“Here.” I repeat like so long ago.

“Snow, what the fuck?” Baz is already departing his wall. At least, he’s engaged in being frustrated.

“Look, just don't tell the table-”

Baz tsks. “You’re such a moron, Snow.”

I splutter but then _he_ kisses _me_.

And my mind goes blissfully blank.

* * *

 

 

We sleep in the kitchen that night, my arm draped across his body and his fingers twitching for me.

There’ll be time to talk about what I am, what we are later. How it’ll affect the press and other matters.

For now, it doesn't matter. We don't care. It's just us, two boys who’ve found solace and whose heart aches for the other, suspended in the dark, in time.

It's Baz and me.


End file.
